I don't have a clue what's going on

"You're not like most IT people I know." When my friend Kellie said this she'd only just met me and I didn't know whether it was meant as a compliment. To be on the safe side I took it as one and it turned out I was right. Her husband is also a non-conformist IT person; her perception apparently is slightly unkempt men in black t-shirts and jeans who rarely see sunlight and spend their non-working hours sitting at the home computer. Admittedly I do pass hours on Facebook and (occasionally) blogging but she was thinking more of online role-playing games, assembling machine code and hacking into the Russian nuclear arsenal.

Other people assume that because call myself a computer programmer I must be a techie. That's like mistaking a chauffeur for a mechanic. He doesn't need to know what's happening under the bonnet unless the car starts going wrong, or he finds the engine bay fascinating. I very definitely try to keep the bonnet shut.

Today I spent a bad deal more than three hours in a meeting about migrating application servers to a new dynamic services platform. (Your eyes are glazing over already. So were mine. But lunch was provided.) Around an hour in, discussion turned to TPMC benchmarks and performance slices, at which point one of my colleagues intervened. "I can see a problem here," he said. Me too: I didn't understand the subject at all. It turned out he did and had a valid concern, while I was just thinking about the Engie Benjy theme tune. "There's a problem here without a doubt/Let's look around and check it out." As you can tell, an hour of techie talk and my brain turns to mush.

If anyone can explain why there are five different versions of Windows 2003 Server, when logically one ought to be enough, or knows what a hypervisor is, please let me know. As to what will be "stored on VMFS SAN volume by VMware ESX server", your guess is as good as mine. The list of acronyms went on and on: RACI, iSCSI, DMZ, SATA. I'm sure someone out there understands all this stuff, but I wouldn't want to spend more than a few minutes alone with that person.

I don't build home networks or disassemble disk drives for fun. Nor have I memorised every IP address in the western world or read Computing Weekly. I just try to make things work a bit better for people in my office. So next time you have a problem with your PC/printer/MSWord/Excel/Outlook/modem/ISP/dongle/iPhone, improve your chances of getting a correct answer: walk straight past me and ask the nearest eight-year-old.

Let the train cause the strain - and the doctor not cure it

My train home was 30 seconds early one day this week. Just thought I’d mention it. You have to be careful with punctuality-related vocabulary. “On time” doesn’t in fact mean “as per the time shown on the timetable”, it refers to any time within 10 minutes of that shown. Obvious really. The railways don’t make much sense at all, frankly. The trains are owned by venture capitalists and run by a hotch-potch of franchisees on track that’s maintained (or not) by a variety of private companies contracted to a publicly-owned replacement for a previous privatised government department – and all overseen by a toothless watchdog.

I’m not old enough to remember the heady days of BR properly: days out to London on the train in the 80s were impossibly exciting but I suspect that was due to the adventure rather than the quality of the rolling stock, some of which was orange. In the post-privatisation era Connex, who previously operated water pipes in France, proved inept and lost their franchise. I can’t even remember the name of the next company to take over Kent’s trains but they were almost as bad for quite a while. Then, just as they started to improve the service to Third World standards, they were booted out and SouthEastern Trains took over. With their shiny new rolling stock they’ve made inroads but still punctuality is a sticking point. And although they hide behind (or under) leaves on the line and the inadequacies of Network Rail, it seems to me the real problem is targets.

The government, or one of its quangoes, supplied the rail companies with detailed information about the arrival times of their services, told them they had to match the timetables, and allowed them to modify the timetables. You didn’t have to be a prophet to predict what would happen next. My regular trains to and from work used to be scheduled to arrive at 8.31 and 18.20 respectively, and were late (in the normal sense of the word) more often than not. Now four minutes has been added to each timetable and curiously enough, punctuality has improved. This is aided by the 10-minute leeway which allows the rail companies to boast 90+% of trains are “on time” and the government to bask in reflected glory. In the real world, our journeys are still as long as before. Sometimes longer: at the fringes of peak time and in the evenings, trains are frequently held at stations because they’ve arrived early but can’t leave until the new timetable allows. I’ve heard it said that fast trains from Margate to London take longer now than in 1947, where locomotives ran on smelly Welsh coal and the carriages were made from old packing cases. So much for progress. Give me a train that’s fast rather than punctual, please, if you can. But it won’t happen because the current situation is too cosy: shareholders get a dividend; the inherent deficiencies of the whole set-up are hidden; and fewer poor-performance fines have to be paid from taxpayer subsidies.

It’s not only rail passengers that suffer from crazy targets. Our doctor must see within 48 hours every patient who makes an appointment – it’s in his patient charter, or something. What it means in reality is that the receptionist takes bookings only 48 hours ahead and once the list is full, you have to ring back the following day. Genius or madness? The only beneficiaries are the consultants paid to find loopholes in these nanny-state regulations.

If I could draw up targets like this, I would oblige myself to attend work only once a week. Then I could turn up a whole twice and declare it a minor triumph which qualified me for a bonus.

Seeing as I can’t set my own performance targets, I will direct towards those in government who think these things are a great idea, an ancient Arab insult: May the leaves of a thousand trees delay your journey home. I fear it may fall on deaf ears as they sit in their limos.

Here's a little riddle for you.

Three men named Andrew arrange to meet in a bar. They were all born in the same decade - which one?
For the answer, highlight the space below.
The 1970s

I thought about this last week whilst with two old friends who happen to share my name. We met at university and I hadn't seen one of them for 12 years; I once went on holiday with the other and stayed at his parents' house but despite being erstwhile housemates our paths hadn't crossed for three years. It was good to meet up but it brought back an old dilemma about naming. The erstwhile housemate was resolutely Andrew (perhaps because he'd been to public school) and I'd always been Andrew but because I didn't mind Andy, that's what I became at uni to differentiate between us in the house. Then I met my wife who had a brother called Andy and either although or because they weren't close she preferred to call me Andrew again. My nameplate at work says Andy because it fitted better (I was told) but everyone calls me Andrew (to my face). The third friend of the recent reunion, incidentally, was and still is Andy.

It seems future generations will not be faced with the dilemma. In 2007, Andrew was the 99th most popular boys' name for babies born in England and Wales - down from a heady 74th in 2003. Considering Tyler, Jayden and Oscar made the top 40, I'm frankly insulted. Then there are Logan, Mason and Riley in the 50s, Kian, Ellis, Harley, Bailey, Luca and Ashton between 68 and 76, and Morgan, Corey, Taylor and even Louie, all above my noble name. As for Kai (62) and Jay (96), they aren't names, they're letters.

Incidentally, I know there are Andrews out there who weren't born in the 1970s. It's just that there aren't enough that they would be friends with each other. As if to prove my point, in 1974 Andrew was the fourth most popular name for baby boys. It's the only year ending in 4 in which Andrew has made the top five.

The times they are a-changin'

A change, it is said, is as good as a rest. The 5,000 tearful employees of Lehman Brothers who were turfed out onto the glossy streets of Canary Wharf yesterday probably didn't welcome the sudden change in their circumstances, but it's OK because they'll now have plenty of time to rest, whilst looking for new jobs in a chaotic market. London has always been a fast-moving city but at the moment it's helter-skelter.

I returned after a few days away to discover Cannon Street station swathed in scaffolding, the preparatory stage of a huge redevelopment project. As fast as companies are shedding staff from the Docklands, new office buildings are appearing in the City itself, most of them apparently destined to remain empty for the foreseeable future.

It's also a time of change for me personally. In late July, I and around 70 colleagues were hit by the bombshell that the project we were working on, was to be relocated to Houston, leaving us to guess what might come next. The contractors have been leaving and as of yesterday I'm officially in limbo, pending a decision on whose team I should join. I have been putting to good use the inverted commas in “working” from home. My team of nine, closely knit over a number of months, is being scattered to the winds.

Even managementspeak is changing. In a meeting yesterday I heard the phrase “in the hopper” (i.e. up for consideration) and “set the hares running” (get people excited without full knowledge of the facts) – and the latter was also used by a loud-phoning man on the train. No doubt there will soon be more job-loss euphemisms like “rolling off”.

I think a lot more change is around the corner. You could probably count on your fingers the people who understand the macroeconomic structure of modern Britain, but a growing number believe the whole financial system is rotten to the core and we are headed for a very nasty fall. There will be more high-profile casualties of the current meltdown, which is proving to be far more than a credit crunch. It's long been argued that socialism breaks down because people are greedy. Now we are being reminded that capitalism also breaks down because people are greedy. And that is one thing that definitely will not change.

A whole new ball game

At the moment I'm too busy with paint, demolition, invoices and the like to think straight let alone write anything for the blog - although with the kitchen close to completion at last, an update will follow in due course. But as mentioned previously, I was in Houston recently and here's something I wrote in the dead of night but couldn't post because the hotel's internet connection was so feeble...

Baseball. Oft derided for its World Series which includes teams from precisely one continent, but a huge business. And finally after many years of longing I have seen a live game. The "many years of longing" part isn't true actually, and it wasn't much of a game either. The Houston Astros are one of the weakest teams in Major League Baseball and this definitely contributed to the visiting Pittsburgh Pirates looking like, well, World Series winners. It was 5-0 after five innings and when a three-run homer went "out of the ballpark" at the top of the seventh, that was the end of the contest. At least the Astros had the decency to score the last couple of points, but without the home run that would have sent the decorative train on its celebratory run along the top of the outfield. Final score 8-2 to the Pirates, who won 9-3 yesterday evening with seven runs in the ninth inning and who will almost certainly win again tomorrow afternoon.

So much for the game. Even aficionados - and I'm not convinced there were many at the game - didn't seem exactly gripped. But the attendance was almost 34000, which meant one Houstonian in every 70 was in Minute Maid Park on a Tuesday evening to watch two unremarkable teams (correction: one remarkably bad team and one merely moderate) play the second in a three-game miniseries. Our tickets cost $37 each and even in a foreign currency I can do the math. Someone somewhere is making a huge amount of money from baseball and I suspect it was the men singularly failing to hold the attention of the crowd. At any one time about 10 percent of those present were out of their seats fetching refreshments; no one cared that the beer hawkers in the gangways were blocking the view of the game; and there was far more excitement about the between-innings competitions (eg a Hannah Montana look-not-very-alike, trivia contests, which Hummer would win a cartoon race on the big screen) than anything that happened in or around the diamond. The infamous KissCam did catch a guy proposing to his girlfriend and she said yes although it was hard to imagine a less romantic setting.

And you know what? I actually enjoyed it. I wouldn't want to go to the baseball that often because I imagine it's always more of the same, but MMP with the roof open would be a great sight. And it's a family/social event that football in the UK could only aspire to: families with young children, teenagers on dates, middle-aged men, no segregation and the only police on duty were directing traffic. On top of that, the baseball players were among some of the least athletic sportsmen imaginable. And being a Gillingham fan, that sense of impending doom from the very start of the game made me feel right at home.

I have a love-hate relationship with cycling. Today for example I took five minutes out from work to grab my first chocolate of the day and watch the men's team pursuit final from Beijing. Ed Clancy, Bradley Wiggins, Paul Manning and Geraint Thomas blew the Danes away in a world record time and reminded me how good it feels when everything is in perfect synchronicity, man and machine as one flowing irresistibly across the surface like a swelling tide. I wanted to be somewhere on a bike, anywhere.

Not that many hours later I was on a bike, Sarah's bike, on the hill up from the station. My bike is currently off the road, the consequence of a lazy "maintenance" schedule - that's an aspect of cycling I definitely hate. Sarah's is probably lovely on forest tracks but with a seat you could park a truck on, knobbly tires, no mudguards, bouncy forks and small wheels it's not exactly the perfect commuter. And then the skies unleashed their full fury. Within a couple of minutes I was wetter than when I stepped out of the shower just now - at least in the shower your clothes don't hold the water against your skin. August has had the heaviest rainfall for 100 years and most of it was in my shoes. Any part of me overlooked by the rain was covered by spray from the standing water. I was literally wet through, despite a waterproof jacket. I wanted to be somewhere not on a bike, anywhere.

And so, while Brad and company fly through the streets in all weathers striving for the extra split second that changes silver to gold, I will nibble (OK, gobble) my chocolate bar and marvel from afar.

A traveller's travails

I don't much like travelling and just recently it seems travelling doesn't like me either. Three weeks ago I spent around 15 hours going to Houston. Two weeks ago I spent about 15 hours coming home again - the better part of the deal, I have to say. Three days later a reorganisation rendered the trip pointless.

On Sunday we spent around seven hours driving to Cornwall, with our niece in tow, for a sunny holiday. On Wednesday evening we spent around six hours driving back, after three days of almost uninterrupted rain. In Cornwall, anyway; we are told that here in Kent it was quite pleasant, even approaching balmy on Monday. Whilst Adam discovered the joys of a 25-foot drop slide at Dairyland near Newquay, twice, because it was one of the few indoor activities we could do (and the return visit was free), I can't honestly say it was 700 miles' petrol well spent. Sarah had already done over 400 miles collecting Emma from Stoke-on-Trent and our poor little car, accustomed to spending long evenings parked outside our house, didn't know what had hit it.

I should probably make clear it's the act of travelling that I don't like, rather than being in a different place. Indeed, often it's only the arriving in a different place that compensates for the journey. Put me on a train and I will fall asleep in minutes. Coaches are nearly as bad. And as a car passenger I will nod off for sure on the motorway. Fortunately I find it easier to stay awake when driving, although that's not an activity I particularly enjoy either. It's very much a means of getting from A to B and at the moment with fuel so expensive, the closer A and B are together and the closer my speed is to 55mph, the better. Flying (as a passenger at least) must be one of the most boring activities known to man. A couple of hours here and there is OK, but two meals, three films and still two hours till landing - it's a threat to sanity.

The return from Cornwall was brightened - literally - by the most incredible thunderstorm. Sheet lightning, forks appearing to go up, flashes between cloud layers, horizontal spears, this had the lot, across the full width of the visible sky all the way from Wiltshire to Kent. And where exactly was the storm? Right above our house.

We will be tootling off to Berkshire at the weekend, sans children, for a wedding. And whilst another 150 or so miles on the motorways of the south will be unwelcome, I still dare hope the event (and the overnight stay) will be more worthwhile than our recent trips.

The chips are down - at last

Today was a momentous day: the felt and stone chips went on the roof. And in the evening water gushed down the kitchen wall, for the third time in about six weeks. Once again I found myself up on the roof attempting to improvise a solution; tools deployed have included bricks, blocks of wood, plastic sheeting, a broom and a length of guttering. In the roofers' defence, the latest waterfall wasn't their fault: the downpipe had been removed to give them a clear space and all the cloudburst collected by the main house roof soaked into the wall instead, until it ran out of the gap at the bottom where the ceiling would normally be. And of all the people who've worked on the extension so far, the roofers' is the job I really wouldn't want to do: hot tar, baking temperatures, no shade, heavy materials up and down ladders, a set of clothes ruined each day.

Today I was told that whatever estimate I had for the extension, I should add a third. Had the guy been looking at my pile of invoices? Part of the trouble is that the gerrybuilding of the house we bought wasn't limited to what we'd already identified. The flat roof had to be seen to be believed - although not if you have a weak heart. It was constructed using friction, levitation and crossed fingers. Not to mention two half-bricks holding up one entire corner of the house. I can only think the builder (who lives very nearby) was distracted by his horse bucking or his stetson falling off. Our neighbour looked rather alarmed when I told her why a large section of the roof was being reconstructed: he built hers too.

The house had about 400 miles of pipes, its own gas leak, sockets wired into the wrong circuits and one ring main that just needs to be ripped out - which fortunately it was going to be anyway as part of the planned works. All these are things we would rather not have to pay to put right - over two grand and counting - but are glad to have found now rather than later. It turns out one of today's roofers did the felt on the original extension back in 1989, although his work was ripped up by the previous owners. We hope his workmanship is better than the rest.

Although he hasn't been on site as much as we anticipated, Colin has worked extremely hard. We now have a roof with the correct number of joists that slopes the right way and supports the bay above. All the doors windows are in, if you overlook the one which needs to be refitted because I got the measurements wrong. The whizzy remote-controlled garage door is in. The plumber moved the boiler. Our new fridge-freezer arrived today and the old one has a new home, as do most of the kitchen units. A skip lorry did a wheelie this afternoon whilst taking away at least four tons of assorted debris. And the whole place still looks like a bombsite.

The happiness of the long-distance rider

I am feeling very pleased with myself. With good reason, too. At the weekend I cycled 125 miles in aid of Demelza Hospice Care for Children, a local charity that does what it says on the tin. I can't even read their website without getting choked up and thinking “There but for the grace of God go I” and it was no decision at all to sign up and start pestering people for sponsorship. My bike had moved just once in the previous nine months: from the garage to the hallway in preparation for the building work. But Colin and I got some quick miles in and a week ahead of the event I was confident I could do the distance, spread over two days.

Then I saw the weather forecast. Saturday's route joined in a jagged line places I'd visited as a child (Eynsford, Yalding, Battle) or heard announced at the London termini (Swanley, Robertsbridge, Battle again), with a start point at Eltham. That was definitely an “it's a small world” moment: of all the places in south-east London, it happened to be literally just round the corner from the only people we know with an SE postcode. At 6.30am on Saturday, right on cue, it was heavy drizzle outside. At 10am in Eltham it was properly raining and we had to negotiate the busy high street. By 11am at Eynsford the sun was out for just about the only time in the day and we'd lost our first riders, two teenagers who were visibly ill-equipped for the challenge ahead. The remaining nine, plus guest leader Alan, who at the age of 70 holds two regional time-trial records and had to rein himself in, pressed on across the Weald of Kent. Another racer, Fast Mark, had planned the route and kept reassuring us that the next section would be downhill. After a while we stopped believing him: the laws of geology require that sooner or later you have to go up again, and experience supported them. Each regrouping stop became more welcome, each return to the bike more painful. But finally we crossed the boundary into East Sussex, skirting the tourist trap that is Battle to finish at the village of Magham Down, base for the Demelza hospice-at-home service. That was 69 miles and five of us rode three more miles to the Travelodge where we were to spend the night, while the others dived for the support vehicles and literally put their feet up.

For me probably the biggest highlight of the whole weekend – and there were plenty to choose from - was not on the bike at all. We went to the village of Coxbeech for a team dinner and as we arrived at the Merrie Harriers pub, the locals stood to applaud us. For that, I was even prepared to overlook the stupid spelling of the pub's name. The food was good, it was refreshing to be out in civvies and we finished early enough to get plenty of sleep ahead of what Fast Mark informed us would be a tough Sunday, not least because we had to go back up the one-mile 1:10 hill from earlier in the day. And he casually mentioned it was going to be wet and very windy.

It was with a certain amount of trepidation that I opened the curtains in the morning. But it wasn't raining and as we assembled at 8am for breakfast, the sun came out. By the time we got home I would be quite sunburned, again, and of all the problems I anticipated for the weekend that was not on the radar at all. Greg, who I'm told is only 13, had dropped out 20 miles short on Saturday but was back on his mountain bike for Sunday morning. The route was shorter but much hillier, with four big climbs. Fortunately the wind was behind us and by lunch at Staplehurst we were ahead of schedule with two major hills out of the way. One of our support drivers reckoned the lead group (including me) had covered the previous 13 miles in only half-an-hour, which seems unlikely but we were certainly cracking along with several descents at 30mph or more. Those of us who knew the route assured the “foreigners” that the last 10 or 12 miles would be a nice downhill cruise to the finish – and we meant it. But before that we had to climb Linton hill into Maidstone and find a way over the 200m North Downs. In between those two epic trials we rode in convoy through Maidstone town centre, trying to keep in close formation with the support vans. For just a few minutes we felt quite important. Our chosen route over the top was up the side of Blue Bell Hill, a route I've suffered a few times. But everyone rode all the way and it was all smiles at the top with the knowledge that the worst was over. We cruised to the finish an hour ahead of schedule.

In the carpark after the obligatory welcome ceremony, featuring beer, chocolate biscuits and the smell of stale sweat, I discovered that Tracey's bike had cost just £75. I had a quick ride on Fiona's and understood why the two of them had been in what the Tour de France calls the autobus for most of Saturday. But it was definitely chapeau, as the garlic munchers would say, to those two and Greg; I would have struggled to complete the distance on any of those bikes.
There were two problems with the finish on Sunday. One was that I felt great (apart from the sunburn) and wanted to keep riding. The other was that it seemed like something of an anti-climax to be back to normal routine after two days when every thought and action was focused towards the completion of a challenge. It probably didn't help that Sarah and the boys were very tired after a sleepless sleepover at Yvonne's. But collecting the sponsorship money and seeing the total soar (over £4500 at the time of writing) was restorative for the spirits.

What next? I'm planning a day trip to Battle, to take on those hills again. And Brighton in a day, albeit I might take the train home. More immediately, the 75-mile round trip to work which almost killed me before, looks within my compass. I have food for thought for the mooted Land's End to John O'Groats ride a couple of years from now. And if, as suggested by Fast Mark, there's another day ride later in the summer just for the sake of it, bring it on...

This post is dedicated to Colin, Fast Mark, Big Mark, Peter, Josh, Chris, Tracey, Fiona and Greg, without whom my weekend would have been considerably less than half as much fun.

Bricks, blocks and setbacks

While we were away our extension was due to rise to roof level. Having seen how Colin’s own house build didn’t go entirely to plan, I wasn’t surprised to receive nightly updates indicating that progress was not as swift as intended. His star bricklayer couldn’t get time off his regular job, his helper broke a toe, Colin himself was injured by a delivery lorry whose driver mistook his leg for a bag of sand, and the weather didn’t cooperate. The result is that the walls are still a few man-days from completion. But we do have a man and some days. Should be fine then.

Daniel loves “Nolin” and is keen to help, despite a lack of suitable footwear. Last weekend he was carting half-bricks in a plastic wheelbarrow and yesterday he dug a hole with his Scoop digger. Unfortunately it was in the lawn. But it’s the thought that counts. And where the extension is concerned, there are plenty of thoughts.

Head, shoulders, knees and toes

We returned from our Spanish holiday with a nursery rhyme of ailments – not that, being severely sunburned, I could do the actions for a few days. That’s the shoulders accounted for. Adam scraped a knee, probably slipping over because he insisted on wearing flip-flops on shiny tiled pavements. (His reason: his trainer socks were too dirty to wear. After he walked across gravel sans trainers.) Daniel’s head suffered from repeated contact with hard surfaces. Did you know there is no Spanish word for health and safety? I just made that up, but it’s not implausible. They expect each person to take responsibility for himself, which is commendable unless that person is two and utterly reckless. Fortunately Daniel refrained from falling into the harbour whilst trying to touch the fish.

The most serious injury, perhaps, was Adam getting his foot trapped in the door of the train en route to the airport. He had fellow passengers pulling the emergency alarm, trying to open the door and encouraging us to sue. We won't because there was no lasting damage, other than perhaps to my back after I’d had to manhandle two suitcases and Adam up the endless slopes to the departures area. And because it was no one's fault except our son's for dangling his feet idly. We wouldn’t have fancied trying to explain all that in Spanish; it’s fortunate that the Costa del Sol is largely anglophone.

That, of course, is one of the reasons we go to Fuengirola. Although ashamed of our feeble Spanish (Sarah’s is even worse than mine, despite her many years’ head start), we’re at ease and know what a holiday there will deliver. This time it included a few drops of rain but mostly it was sun, sea, swimming, siestas, meals out, late nights and vino tinto. Having Grandma and Great-Grandad for intermittent company was also a joy, one we know we shouldn’t take for granted.

I’d never noticed until trying to keep two children safe that Spanish pedestrian crossings are strange. The red man means “Cross now and you will get splatted”. The green man means “Cross now and you may get splatted.” A subtle but important difference. Its cause: Spanish drivers are expected to give way on crossings but don’t always bother. Otherwise, I have to say the urban road system is excellent. Refuse bins and vast carparks are underground, freeing the street scene for trees and bushes which in turn deter pedestrians' wandering into the traffic. It is mandatory for every Spanish car to be either dented or scratched; indeed the degree of damage may be a status symbol. The approach for finding a parking space seems to be: “That gap isn’t quite big enough. But it will be.” On previous visits I didn’t understand why Spaniards don’t mend their cars, any more than they clean off the dust. I now think they are too busy doing things that actually add quality to their lives. And I don’t blame them.

Your friendly film critic reports...

The Russian Communist Party has complained about the new Indiana Jones film. Having seen it yesterday, I would assume that letters of protest are also in the post from archaeologists, academics, double agents and James Dean impersonators. Near the end there's a scene where Indy can't believe what he's seeing, shortly followed by an expression of utter relief that it's all over. I was right with him.

It's not that The Crystal Skull is a terrible film, it's actually quite an enjoyable way to pass a couple of hours. But if, as rumoured, it took 14 years to come up with a script that Ford and Spielberg were happy with, I dread to think what the first draft must have been like. George Lucas's pervasive and unique brand of pseudo-sci-fi mumbo-jumbo is off-putting and the central legend so obscure (made up?) that a huge amount of exposition follows. The result is a film of dramatically fluctuating pace.

The Crystal Skull just looks tired and rather humourless, although there's a nice touch with the hat just before the credits - which you might miss after spewing at the sickly-sweet Hollywood ending. Cate Blanchett's villain appears to have escaped from a spoof superhero movie, while the supposedly up-and-coming Shia LaBoeuf is plain annoying, John Hurt speaks only gibberish and Ray Winstone manages to sound even more Cockney than usual. Jim Broadbent is predictably good in his brief role as a plot device.

The film features probably the longest and fastest chase scene ever shot in the Amazon but you could drive a large truck through the holes in the continuity and logic. There's also the most predictable plot twist - sorry, make that two - I've seen for a while and a scene lifted straight from The Mummy. To quote Indy, the skull itself "couldn't be made with any known technology", which begs the question, how did the props man make it? And I don't think I'm giving away too much by revealing that as usual the entire set crumbles into dust at the end - rather like the franchise itself, perhaps.

The fifth and final instalment, "Indiana Jones and the Bathchair of Senility" (simplified US title: Indiana Jones Returns), is due for release in 2022. I hear it will feature either Heather Mills or Kerry Katona as Indy's long-lost daughter, and Vinnie Jones as a mute baddie who tries to prevent Indy returning his talking books to the library. I can't wait.

Chaos at last

Work has finally started on our extension. Technically it started about four weeks ago when I called “the boys” round to help demolish the garage. Paul is about 17 stone of solid barminess with a unique approach to the task. He ripped down the trellis, karate-kicked a hole in the wall, headbutted a few bricks for the benefit of his audience, thumped the roof off its bolts… Emmanuel and I watched with astonishment, then joined in with everything except the headbutts.

The garage wasn’t exactly well built: many of the bricks could be lifted off and there were little piles of sand everywhere from what remained of the mortar. Paul also got to work on the lintel with an angle grinder, to my considerable envy. (I did get to rip down the fence posts though. Real man's work with a proper man's tool.) All best practice with regard to the handling of asbestos roof sheets was blatantly disregarded, by both us and the men at the household waste site when I came to dispose of it. We did have approximately 1000 bricks stacked around the perimeter of the house, before the builders dumped some in the soakaway and I donated more to Paul for his proposed man's shed. We also had a large heap of trellis in the middle of what used to be the lawn, until I converted it to a small heap of ash. My mate Michael came over with petrol but we didn't need it: the thing went up like a Jimmy Godden seaside park. (Topical Kent reference there.) Michael's next visit was to help take up the block paving. That's a devil of a job if, like me, you get two bad lots of advice on how to approach it - and really quite simple if a builder on a recce tells you the proper method. Even simpler if you come home from work to find that a kind South African with a shovel and a work ethic got there first.

The builders turned up on Tuesday and apart from digging a trench in the wrong place and not turning up on Thursday (it was raining too hard, apparently) they appear to be doing a good job.

And at the end of my long exercise trying to decide who to employ, it's Mr Brusque's men who are on site to do the groundworks only. My later dealings with him were very professional, unlike the others. Mr Vague, who didn't bring even a notebook for his visit, not surprisingly forgot to provide either a quote or our drawings back; Mr Thorough asked a lot of intelligent questions and gave us some fine ideas but we’d have had to sell the house to pay his quotation; Mr Non-committal couldn’t read the (admittedly faint) drawings and after I’d personally delivered a better version to his ramshackle office he eventually informed us he couldn’t take on any new work. In the midst of all this our friend Colin told us he could sort out the project from the brickwork onwards and so, despite some obvious risks, that's our chosen option. It is theoretically cheaper than employing a builder to do the whole lot but even at the end I don't think we will know for sure whether it was the right call. And as to when the end will be, your guess is as good as mine. Colin has the skills - he built his own house - but it did take rather longer than expected.

There has been good news (no problem arranging a flexible additional mortgage; opportunities to trim the budget; some additional finance taking shape; the party wall agreement signed; cunning schemes to avoid total loss of the kitchen for six weeks) and bad news (things we’d overlooked in the original budget; my study being smaller when I laid out bricks than I’d anticipated; no permission to increase the size without a new planning application; can’t drain the heating system without losing our hot water; the water main runs through the middle of the site). Perhaps the best news is that Daniel has decided he no longer needs nappies, which removes the need to have the downstairs shower room ready for toilet training during the summer holidays.

I have a hunch we are going to find the next three months or so quite stressful. Our holiday, which was also a nightmare to organise, may fall at just the wrong time in the process, so we’re here for all the messiest and most disruptive stages. At least I will get to take some photos. Keep watching this space…

At the village school May Day fayre yesterday there were new signs on the bouncy castles, saying that parents must supervise their children at all times. Is this a legal requirement or just common sense?

I suspect it's a result of the court case last week in which Sam Harris, who was injured on a bouncy castle, sued the couple who'd hired it, and won £1m compensation. I'm not clear whether this is money that's needed for his care, or just a windfall. It will be covered by the defendants' house insurance, which is strange considering it didn't happen on their property. Good news for the defendants, bad news for those of us whose insurance premia will go up to cover it.

My mother-in-law knows the defendants and told us more about what happened. The Perry family hired the castle along with some other equipment for their triplets' birthday party. Because their garden wasn't big enough, they arranged the use of the field behind their home. Sam Harris happened to be playing in the field, with his father, and wanted to bounce. The Perrys said he couldn't, as he wasn't attending the party, but he went on the castle anyway. (He has Asperger's Syndrome which apparently means he doesn't always listen or understand instructions; the judge said this was irrelevant, curiously. Mrs Perry's back was turned; the judge decided this was relevant.) Another boy did a somersault and accidentally kicked Sam, as a result of which he sustained serious head injuries.

Mark Jerram, founder of the British Inflatable Hirers Alliance (BIHA) said the outcome of the case came as little surprise and reflected the blame culture of modern Britain.

Which brings me back to the signs. The judge rejected the Perrys' argument that Mr Harris should have supervised his son. So why are we now asked to do so? Sometimes the law (or its arbitraters) is a ass.

A victory for Not-Ken

Although a contributor to London's economy - at least in the number of lunchtime omelettes I buy across the road from the office, if not in my work itself - I am not a resident and hence did not get a vote for mayor this week.

Nonetheless I am happy to go on the record as being happy that Boris Johnson won. The electorate weren't exactly spoilt for choice. There were only four candidates who got any publicity at all.
Sian Berry is a member of an extreme Green group.
Brian Paddick is a gay policeman and, er, who knows?
Boris is known for his gaffes and buffoonery, under which I suspect lie some views that are closer to the 19th than the 21st century.
Ken Livingstone is himself, which in many people's eyes is enough to make him unelectable.

This is the man who said he wouldn't serve more than one term, who said that no mayor should serve more than two terms - and then tried for a third. A man who welcomed all kinds of extremists (both political and religious). A man who took junketing and cronyism to a new level. A man who introduced bendy buses which may be statistically successful (if you overlook the spontaneous combustion of several in the early days) but have drivers boiling over as they block junctions and are a fare-dodger's delight into the bargain. A man who said he would never increase the congestion charge from £8 and then put it up to £25. A man who held a consultation about extending the congestion zone west and ignored the 80% majority opposition to implement the scheme anyway. A man who makes a big deal of travelling by public transport but appears to have invested nothing in the Tube, only buses.

The only way the Tories could have lost was to put forward a complete idiot of a candidate and even they couldn't find one bad enough to lose to Ken. Boris may well screw up the actual business of being mayor, although the way he's avoided hot water during the campaign suggests some wiser heads are playing a part in his operation these days. History may show him as something of a stalking horse but the crucial thing is, London has declared a victory for Someone Who is Not Ken.

So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodbye

Working in IT, it's a fact of life that contractors come and contractors go. Often they leave behind barely a ripple on the pond of chaos that is project work, but this week the office has seemed strangely empty without one of my erstwhile colleagues.

Julian Frenchname was a little older than me, rather greyer and decidedly thinner on top. He was also very quiet. So quiet that few people got to know him. (I did ascertain he likes exposing his young children to extreme sports, waited weeks for granite worktops for his kitchen, became a data modeller by accident and wasn't entirely sure on the correct spelling of his surname.) So quiet in fact that when his bosses failed to sort him out with a new contract, instead of making a fuss he just went and looked for another job.

But behind the quiet exterior was a very capable worker, who from a standing start produced in only six months the finest (admittedly only) logical data model I've ever seen. More importantly, he had a crazy sense of humour - the kind produced I suspect by too many years of working on brain-bending analysis in dark corners. We had some off-the-wall discussions, of which probably the funniest (and last) was about how the data model could be presented using Thomas the Tank Engine fuzzy felt. Trust me, it was far better in real life than it sounds on paper.

I think I will miss him and am even prepared to forgive him for living in Milton Keynes.

Court comedy

Last week, as well as being offline, I was also off sick. That left me with little better to do than follow the conclusion of the McCartney divorce case.

I couldn’t help noticing that not unlike the Diana inquest a few weeks previously, we had one of the participants hurling something in the High Court and then prattling on the steps to the assembled media. Last time it was that well-known bastion of truth (and world-class insulter) Mohamed Al-Fayed; this time it’s that well-known bastion of truth (and world-class water-thrower) Heather Mills.

I couldn’t help wishing it had been Sir Paul McCartney giving evidence at the inquest – as a bona fide modern-day saint he could probably tell the judge exactly what happened on the fateful night. That would have freed up the Egyptian Grocer to battle it out with Lady Mucca – and what a fight that would have been. Neither of them is clinging to reality by more than the edge of a fingernail but they could have sold tickets to cover the legal bill. The only trouble is, I (and I suspect the judge and the entire British population) would have wanted them both to lose – an outcome difficult to achieve in our legal system. And last time I checked, divorce settlements didn’t include banishment from the country, or failing that just the media. If they did, I suspect Mrs Mc would not have let it get that far.

The price of progress

Being my father’s son, I am cursed with a fascination for construction and civil engineering projects. Recently this has taken the form of studying planning applications on the council website, a habit acquired whilst waiting for ours to appear. But I've also studied many projects from the train these past 12 years, as every available parcel of land between here and London gets swallowed up for development. Rochester Riverside, the Silwood Estate in Bermondsey, a high-rise near Millwall's old stadium, a huge shed near their new one, the More London sprawl blocking views of Tower Bridge, the ultra-trendy award-winning Palestra (which achieved the unlikely feat of being as ugly as the 60s office block demolished by JCB to make way) and the adjacent Travelodge, even the London Eye - all these have given me reason to stay awake.

I mention this because in the past couple of days the scaffolding has reached the very top of the Southwark Towers, rising 100m above London Bridge station. Like a racehorse with a broken leg, the building is being shrouded to hide its impending doom from hapless spectators. Yet despite my interest in such things, I am indisputably sad at this turn of events. Although the interior apparently needs an overhaul, the building is only 32 years old and there is nothing fundamentally wrong with it. Indeed I would go so far as to say that with its three brown-brick wings and outhung glass panels it is quite elegant, especially in comparison to its neighbours. (The adjacent New London Bridge House is also up for demolition and will not be missed, but Guy’s Hospital is incontrivertibly ugly.) Its misfortune is to be situated on prime development land required for the 305m-high Shard of Glass.

Quite why we as a society should countenance the demolition of a usable, attractive, relatively recent building, to accommodate a £350m vanity project, is beyond me. We are supposed to be reducing our use of scarce resources, not producing thousands of tons of rubble and erecting another several thousand tons of steel and glass. And who is one of the leading advocates of this hugely wasteful project? Surely not the architect of "green initiatives" like the low emissions zone and £25 congestion charge? Yes, the one and only Ken Livingstone, London’s hypocrite-in-chief.

One way I can cheer myself up is to watch progress at the Kingswood Hotel in Gillingham, derelict for as long as I’ve been travelling past it, but now being renovated and converted for residential use. The structural engineers’ report recommended demolition but it appears that somewhere in the local area is someone who prefers making the most of what we have to building something bigger and brasher. A quiet work in Tyrant Ken’s ear wouldn’t go amiss.

Facebook - friend?

If anyone out there feels bereft at the lack of updates to this blog over the past nine days, shame on you. But hey, an apology is also due. I realised I needed to do some stuff in the real world instead of prattling on here, and then my scheduled blogging time on Friday evening (not to mention a substantial part of Saturday morning) was spent trying to remove a ton of malware from the PC.

Now it may be coincidence but this nasty stuff appeared on the computer just after Sarah joined Facebook and started playing the various games and quizzes contained therein. I should mention I also signed up but have spent hardly any time on there at all. Even leaving aside the possibility that it was the source of our infection, I haven't honestly been that impressed with Facebook. There are some neat features but I don't really want a virtual flower bed, virtual drinks or to have my cyber werewolf served a bowl of pain by a Sinister Vampire attack. (Yes, that's something you really can do, if you for some reason want to.)

Perhaps more than that, the definition of friendship is being stretched. Here's a quote from another Facebook user: "How come I have 233 friends but only two birthday cards?" That's Mark, a "friend" of mine who I've seen probably twice in four years. Another friend (who I haven't seen for even longer but do at least e-mail regularly and phone once in a while, and whose identity I shall protect) remarked: "X added me as a friend but I strongly hesitate to contact him as he never ever replies." Facebook invites a policy of claiming as friends people who in the real world should be considered acquaintances at best. It seems to be a badge of honour to have as many Facebook friends as possible - that's the only reason I can think of for my being contacted by people who I used to bump into a dozen years ago and with the best will in the world am never likely to see again. Since when has friendship been a competition?

I'm wondering how you decide whether someone is a friend or not. Perhaps someone you would send a birthday card (see above). Well on Facebook you can see all your friends' birthdays and send a message, with no effort expended at all. Good or bad thing?

Disclaimer: I have fewer friends than Sarah both on Facebook and in real life - so you may judge I'm just bitter.

Andrew's money-saving tips #5: Don't buy birthday cards and presents for your friends, just sign up to Facebook.

Dem bones, dem bones, dem plaster bones

We went to the Natural History Museum on Friday, en famille except for Daniel who doesn't do queuing. The date was carefully chosen to hit Adam's inset day (Baker day) prior to the one week break (half-term), so the place wouldn't be crowded. Unfortunately we failed to observe that not all education authorities operate the same calendar and the place was crowded with children on their week's holiday.

I've been to the Science Museum several times and love it because it has things with engines, but my fleeting visits to the adjoining building have totalled in the region of an hour of boredom. This may be due to me not having appreciated fine architecture at the age of nine. The museum building combines ecclesiastical touches with more than a hint of railway shed - and the occasional hospital corridor thrown in. Coincidentally one of my colleagues did a walking tour of the Crystal Palace park at the weekend and was told that the three great Kensington museums were funded by the unfathomable income from the Great Exhibition. I don't know if it's true: Wikipedia is silent on the subject.

Anyway, our reason for being there was the dinosaurs... Adam is obsessed. He's not the only one: the 15-minute queue stretched right around Dippy the diplodocus back in the main hall. Dare I say it though, the whole thing seemed a little dumbed-down. The most impressive exhibit, a genuine half-entombed carcass with a section of skin still in place, was right by the door and quickly passed by en route to the raised walkway leading towards the animatronic T Rex. (Which has a split in its neck, by the way.) Perusal of the exhibition in its entirety reveals that nearly all the skeletons on display are casts rather than real bones, that few enough bones have been found to render the reconstruction of dinosaurs little more than educated guesswork in many cases, and that indeed much dino-related palaentology is based on surmise and theory rather than evidence. That does not stop kids - and a fair few adults, judging from the success of Jurassic Park - being enchanted. Adam thinks dinosaurs are the best thing since long before sliced bread and knows far more about them than I ever wish even to have any interest in.

Fortunately we had time to see the stuffed animals, the sabre-tooth skeleton, the creepy-crawly room and the humungous (though disproportionate) model of the Blue Whale which is one of the museum's most famous pieces. Unfortunately we didn't have time to see Archie the giant squid or the geological collection, among other things. A return visit is in order.

I am impressed that such a vast collection of artifacts and knowledge should be entirely free to view. My only concern is that it is wasted on the majority of the British public. Then again, if they went as well, we would still be queuing.

Save lives: superheat the planet

After our trip to sunny Margate, I found an article on that bastion of truth, the BBC website, stating that global warming could make us live longer (see http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/health/7240463.stm). Bearing in mind how many people in the world have a life expectancy of less than 40, I think it's our duty to warm the globe as much as possible. With that in mind, and in the interests of stimulating the depressed British economy, I will tomorrow be spending money I don't have on a super-polluting 4x4, for the good of the world. Possibly.

I have in fact been rather reassured to find the past two mornings were freezing cold and foggy into the bargain, just like a proper winter. Not that we've had any proper snow (that persists for more than a couple of days) for about a decade. I'm sure it didn't used to be like that when I was a kid.

But there was a lovely jumpers-for-goalposts moment on my way home from work. I was passed by three lads on bikes, one of whom was towing a mate in a trailer made from the top half of a shopping trolley with pram wheels attached. I thought teenagers these days were far too busy putting on eye-liner, smashing up bus shelters and hanging around phone boxes with bottles of cheap cider, to be so creative. It fills me with hope that somewhere out there may be the next Brunel. Although I'd be willing to bet that Mr B didn't start by sticking wheels to something stolen from a supermarket.

I do love to be beside the seaside, in February

Down to Margate
You can keep the Costa Brava and all that palaver...
Me I'd rather have me a day down Margate with all me family
- Chas & Dave, Down to Margate

Early February and it was decidedly temperate, not to mention sunny. That's global warming that is. We went to the beach. The sea level was rising in front of our very eyes. That's global warming that is. Just as well we contributed 75 miles' worth of petrol fumes to the atmosphere, to keep British winters warmer.

Margate, it must be said, has seen better days. Chas & Dave's tongue-in-cheek eulogy dates from 1990, by which point I suspect its heyday was already past. Since Sarah and I went there with friends on a couple of pre-marital social jaunts, the seafront cinema has closed, one of the arcades has been razed by fire and the once-proud amusement park (680,000 visitors as recently as 2003) is little more than a car park, despite the meritorious efforts of the Save Dreamland campaign (www.savedreamland.co.uk).

We parked at the base of a derelict car park straight out of the computer game Driver. Perhaps on Saturday night the Saxo drivers of Thanet filled it with screeching donuts, J-turns and tyre smoke. By the following afternoon they were contenting themselves with leaps from the prom into deep sand. Walking from the car park towards the seafront, we passed a parade of shops, all except one concealed by out-of-season shutters or out-of-hope hoardings. It all looked so forlorn and a contrast to the still bustling summer of 99.

But the thing is, the boys were happy. Adam befriended a girl called Tiffany, whose family was closely related to Vicky Pollard, whilst we tried not to be snobby. Daniel carried water back from the sea and poured it into the sand. Adam dug holes. I carved a boat in the sand for the boys to sit in. We ate snacks on the rug. The boys were, if not entirely oblivious, at least silent on the questionable cleanliness of the beach. Adam was distressed by the lack of profit (read, return) from a bag of 2p coins invested in a slot machine; hopefully a lesson well learned for him. We went to the chip shop - and Daniel dropped an entire portion on the floor for the gulls. Adam deposited half a cubic metre of sand from his wellies onto the car park when it was time to go home.

In short it was fabulous. But inexplicably empty. I can only think no one gives a second thought these days to a down-at-heel British resort when skiing or a pool-endowed package hotel is one short flight away. And therein lies the rub. It may be that only when the populace takes climate change seriously and resolves to fly less to the Costas, will the great British holiday - and places like Margate - find a new lease of life. And if they leave it just too late, the British climate will have turned Mediterranean as well.

The Wii small hours

It has been almost three weeks since my last post, which is not intended to imply that nothing exciting has been happening in Wigmore. (It hasn't, I just wanted to defer the disappointment for a few extra seconds.) Wii have in fact been very busy, sometimes until way past the time Wii should have gone to bed.

Occasions when Sarah considers my time spent on the computer to have been profitable are, it must be said, few and far between, but a couple of weeks ago Wii benefited from some idle surfing on my part. Starting out to see what I could get for the shedload of Nectar points that our expensive groceries have generated, I followed a few links across cyberspace as you do, and found myself on the site of a well-known catalogue-based shopping emporium who happened to have taken delivery of some consoles, sans unwanted game bundles. And all of a sudden Wii were the prospective owners of a joint birthday present of which Sarah had given up hope - all it needed was a 15-mile round trip to collect it. Seeing as I had also booked our favourite restaurant fully a month ahead to avoid the usual problems with getting a table for around Valentine's Day, my delivery on a promise that I would find the console did not look like a fluke. Even though it was, entirely.

I had hoped by now that Adam would be an enthusiastic ice skater but reflection upon his debut turned into rejection of a reprise. Sarah and I had a near-miss with skating on a rare date night as well: Wednesday is disco evening and she didn't fancy reacquainting herself with dozens of whizzing blades in near darkness. I am though intending to have lessons and the possibility has also arisen of me learning the piano. That is always assuming we can afford it, or the instrument itself.

Which brings me onto the extension. I have now added Mr Vague, Mr Non-committal and Mr Thorough to the retinue of visitors, and ruled out Mr Chatty. A site visit last weekend confirmed that even if he included a bargepole in the quotation I should not request him to work on our house. A bright idea about financing and some clever design cheats have come to light along the way, but there's no denying it's frustrating to have such a long lead time. Wii're still waiting for three quotes, planning permission, building regs approval and a means to design the kitchen, none of which is guaranteed to fall into place. It could be that the work won't quite be finished before the summer holiday.

And on that cheerful note, I shall return to my pursuit of Pro status on some energetic electronic sport.

The Micawber Principle - right or wrong?

Over the past few days I have been quite despondent about our finances. This was triggered largely by the arrival of the quote for our extension from Mr Chatty. It was impressively detailed and he'd clearly listened to my comments but the fact remained, the numbers were bigger than I'd hoped (and perhaps expected). Add in the likelihood of the kitchen fittings coming in at 50% over the finger-in-the-air figure I'd been basing my estimates on, and suddenly we have quite a shortfall in the financing that I thought would be simple to arrange. We don't really want to cut corners on something that's designed to give us an improved home for the next 15-20 years but on the latest figures there's a question about how we can afford the work without crippling ourselves for the next several years. The second quote from Mr Brusque arrived yesterday and didn't include the specific extras which he didn't give me the opportunity to discuss, but the like-for-like figure was even higher.

Even our day-to-day budgeting has taken a battering, not that it's anything new. December was inevitably a bad month for the budget and despite our best efforts to keep expenditure down, January has been little better. Payday was early last month meaning a longer stretch to the next one, and we've had two major birthdays (Daniel's and the mother-in-law's 60th) to fund.

It's not that, in Mr Micawber's terms, income exceeds expenditure; I earn a good salary and we can cover our bills over the course of the year. The problem is that the budget makes an allowance for savings, to permit us holidays and petty building projects such as £50k extensions, but these are always less than planned. Additional borrowing for the extension would stretch the basic outgoings still further and leave a smaller margin for error.

But does all this really govern the balance between happiness and misery, as Dickens's famous character claims? Some perspective comes from http://www.channel4.com/money/chat_vote_win/richometer/index.html according to which there are only 48m people in the world with a higher income than me. I could quibble about it being based on income, which could easily be exceeded, and with no allowance for differences in the cost of living. But I suspect that ranking based on equity in our house and our meagre savings would probably give a similar result. And so I have resolved that, with billions living hand-to-mouth across the globe and even millions in the UK struggling to keep their heads above a rising tide of government-sponsored debt, I will remain positive, find a way for us to afford the extension without living on bread and water and forgoing holidays, and be grateful for the many benefits my wealthy position offers me.

Growing old ungratefully

I've heard it said that growing old is better than the alternative - and there is no argument from me on that point. But few things are guaranteed to make one feel old than seeing one's children pass another birthday. And so it was that hot on the heels of two of our good friends becoming parents to tiny twins last week, Daniel turned two and can no longer be classed as a baby. He is a bona fide toddler and knows it.

We had an open house to mark the occasion, with (at peak) 23 children and 13 adults present. Of those 23 children, 20 were aged six or under. Chaos isn't the word. Oh for weather that would have allowed us to use the garden - or, I suppose, a lawn that doesn't take days to drain after a millimetre of drizzle. We were confined to indoors. I mopped up eight spillages but all the food was eaten. My friend Kellie from work had made a sumptuous cake following the leitmotif Thomas the Tank Engine; he was on the tablecloth, napkins, wrapping paper, balloons, banners and cards. Daniel was so excited to blow out his candle and open his presents, it reminded me how quickly we lose that childlike enthusiasm and of course that made me feel older too.

Don't misunderstand me - it's great to see my children growing up, especially given the alternative. They're developing their own personality and learning about character, and they also idolise their dad. (Well Adam does; Daniel takes some convincing on Friday evening when he's barely seen me all week.) But I also know it will be over all too soon. One day I will be first to wake on a Saturday morning because the boys can't shift the duvet from their teenaged carcasses. Conversations will be become monosyllabic on their side instead of mine and I will take on the role previously held by my dad, berating them for staying out too late.

And then eventually we will probably become parents ourselves. Apparently that makes you feel young again. That's alright then.

An end and some beginnings

As mentioned in my previous post, Friday was busy. I hadn't anticipated the entire weekend would barely offer time to pause for thought.

I went to Barrie's funeral on Friday. We decided not to go to the crematorium but were told it overflowed, people standing under umbrellas listening to the relay. Our old church was packed with a roll call of the past 30 years' members, including some people I hadn't seen since my early teens. Unexpectedly I got the chance to speak when Pastor Matthew opened the floor after the pre-planned tributes. Afterwards I felt something of an interloper compared to others who knew Barrie much better, but at least my hastily assembled thoughts added a different perspective. Each elegy covered a different aspect of this wonderful man's character and my comments seemed like a mere drop in the ocean; I mentioned he had a rare combination of love for people, wisdom and non-judgement, and that he "didn't consider himself more highly than he ought" but got on with what he felt mattered. On reflection, for all his amusing foibles and his lack of height, Barrie was a fine example of a man.

Sarah stayed behind to chat but I had to dash off - half a mile to our old road, which was the nearest parking place I could find - because I had builders coming to quote for the extension. And so a new beginning very quickly took shape. Mr Brusque was in and out as quickly as he could manage, taking a copy of the plans but avoiding discussion and questions and as a parting shot warning me to "keep my eyes open" when he saw Mr Chatty's van parked across the street. Mr Chatty took his time, noted details, offered advice on various topics and was generally more amenable. Whether he's a better builder remains to be seen; I need to do some more research. There were a couple of hints that builders consider our job to be quite small but it may not be as cheap as I'd hoped. I await the written quotes with interest...

On Saturday I took Adam ice skating for the first time and this too could be the start of something long-running. He fell over more times than the other 80 people put together - really! - but seemed to enjoy himself all the same and didn't become disheartened as I'd anticipated. We're considering enrolling him for some lessons; I may go too and Sarah has realised that if it's going to be a family endeavour - and there was a boy Daniel's age on the ice at the weekend - she will have to nail her courage to the sticking post also.

And finally, the finest start of all, our friends Paul and Kerry became parents to twins Robyn and Phoebe yesterday. It was all a bit sudden - only 12 hours previously I was in the cinema with Paul watching The Golden Compass, which neither of us enjoyed that much although I thought the female leads were great - but mum and babes are doing well.

And finally finally, Sarah is attempting to initiate another start. The typical conversation goes like this...
Sarah: I want a cat.
Andrew: We're not getting a cat.

Sometimes it's...
Sarah: I want a cat.
Andrew: I want to adopt.

Sometimes it's...
Sarah: I want a cat.
Andrew: Isn't it cold outside today?

As you can see, Sarah's reasoning is not particularly well developed and she has resorted to trying to enlist the boys' support for this idea. She thinks she will win the debate because I conceded last time and laughed at the Man Song (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t7Y0I91rubg). The boys aren't convinced and I am adamant.

Work, work, work

Just in case there are millions of people waiting with bated breath (or even bad breath) for the latest news on my life, I am happy to inform you that I'm back at work after the festive break. Not happy to be back at work, merely happy to inform you. That may seem a disservice to my colleagues, as I'm part of a brilliant team which functions on a constant supply of sweets and, for the New Year, a weekly Thursday jaunt. Today we played darts in a central London pub, although in fairness some of the darts did land in outer London. I had the great honour of being on the triumphant (read, less abysmal) team, and I also fluked a double-19 checkout, the only winning double of the day. (The other three games were all settled when we gave up and allowed checkout with a single. That's how inept we were.)

Also today, Sarah picked me up from the station after I hurt my knee walking up some stairs. The lift was good because it avoided heavy rain but the injury is bad because I'm supposed to be taking Adam ice-skating on Saturday. Sarah also almost crashed at one of the mini-roundabouts which blight the route home. This is worth mentioning because in the preceding two days I'd had three near misses on them, on my bike. One was down to a blind corner and me not allowing enough time for my new brakes to do their job, but two were drivers deciding they had right of way even though I was already on the roundabout. I fear it is only a matter of time before one of these morons knocks me off or I am provoked into damaging an encroaching vehicle. Yesterday I could have quite easily taken the old codger's wing mirror off as I caught up at the next lights but settled for sarcastically waving at him through the window.

It was a sad moment in the household this weekend just gone as we took down all the Christmas decorations. Well, not all, as some of them never made it up in the first place. The neon bell fell victim to my lack of a ladder (and my being too ill to go and borrow one) whilst we didn't have a means to attach the rope light to anything. With a smugness remarkable in a four-year-old, Adam suggested nailing it to the wall. Anyway, the departing tree left a large gap and the living room seemed empty. Seconds later I shifted my gaze about two feet to the pile of books, toys, boxes, cushions and CDs stuffed behind the armchair and suddenly the room didn't seem empty after all. In fact it's a miracle we found room for the tree in the first place.

Tomorrow all sorts of things are happening which I will write about, well, once they've happened.

Andrew's money-saving tips #4: Save money by not buying presents for long-distance friends; instead claim they must have been lost in the post.

Happy New Year

A slightly belated Happy New Year to all my readers, if there are any, which I doubt.

The last few days have passed in a blur and the holiday is now over. I have proved myself a master of Wii Sports Golf - on the beginner level anyway - and also won at Monopoly, possibly for the first time in my life. There happened to be a few quid riding on it, against my wishes, although Sarah suspects it focussed my attention. In turn I pointed out the double standard that she will happily play a board game for money but opposes my intended entry into the world of matched betting on the basis that it's gambling.

We also went to a soft play, completing my personal set of three such venues in the area, and I ventured onto a drop slide for the first time in my life. In my early 30s this probably isn't something I should be proud of but the fact is I haven't had the opportunity since Flambards theme park nearly 20 years ago and on that occasion I was far too much of a coward. I don't like the free fall at the beginning but once on the slide it's exhilirating. Adam, far braver than me at either his age or 10 years older, went on it twice (sitting on my lap) before deciding he wasn't keen on the experience. Daniel showed no interest, mercifully. Instead he went off into the smaller maze and after a couple of minutes not being able to find him I was starting to become concerned. Eventually I found him in the only blindspot, sitting patiently by the other slide waiting for me to accompany him down. It was a sweet moment.

I also faced the dilemma of how much interaction with other children is acceptable in such an environment. There was a boy of about five who wanted to go on the drop slide but not alone. I didn't know him from Adam (well I did, but you know what I mean) and although I would have happily taken him on the slide, or picked him up if he'd fallen, or helped him around the maze, you never know how parents will react. As it turned out he was a late arrival to the same birthday party we were at but I erred on the side of caution and left him to his own devices. It struck me what a sad state of affairs that is.

Finally we had a New Year's Eve party, which went pretty well for the most part if you overlook the large amount of red wine consumed by a small number of people and the usual tensions introduced by the arrival of certain guests who shall remain nameless, plus a stranger to whom most present took a dislike. The greatest joy for me was going to collect the boys from their grandparents yesterday and seeing the beaming smiles at my arrival. I felt rather guilty that Daniel had declined to sleep in his normal docile manner but it was good to have them back.

Today I go back to work and will miss my family desperately.

Andrew's money-saving tips #3: Reduce your phone bill by getting your friends to ring you.